


this is me trying

by Flowerparrish



Series: knives out, beaks bloody [1]
Category: Knives Out (2019), Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean Winchester, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Coital Cuddling, soft angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25617340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish
Summary: Dean is more fucking content than he’s been in... ever, maybe. Probably.That should have been his first clue it wouldn’t last.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc (Knives Out)/Dean Winchester
Series: knives out, beaks bloody [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856908
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34





	this is me trying

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Rearview](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24083449) by [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton). 



> You may have noticed Clara and I shipping this wacky pairing and dabbling in creating a crossover timeline in which Knives Out (2019) takes place in the Supernatural world. 
> 
> Well, consider this my first installment of the timeline that is solidifying in my mind. I am currently a few thousand words into an alternate Knives Out where things are a little more spooky and the Winchesters are in on the fun, but for now: have some Dean/Benoit, and know their dynamic is heavily inspired by Clara's fic Rearview, linked below. (I would, tbh, consider this a sequel to that in a lot of ways, and that fic has become central to my vision of the crossover timeline.)
> 
> Okay, enough said about that. Enjoy!

Dean is lying sprawled across Blanc’s chest, well-fucked and sated and trying to pretend he’s not thoroughly enjoying the post-coital cuddling. That he’s definitely not enjoying the way Blanc’s hand rests just above the curve of his ass, or the way Blanc’s other hand is toying with Dean’s hair.

There’s no way it’s convincing; he’s relaxed and at ease in a way that can’t be attributed entirely to sex alone. No matter how good the sex.

(And _oh_ , but it was fantastic, always is… Dean trails off into remembering the last few hours in exquisite detail, only stopping when Blanc huffs a soft laugh as Dean’s dick, hard now, pokes against his thigh. He can’t help it! He’s only in his twenties, and he’s never had sex this good. Which is really saying something.)

The point is, Blanc’s too observant by far to not see the way Dean is relaxing in his arms, the way he’d be purring if he was a cat and how, even still, his breath sighs a little extra hard against Blanc’s chest when his nails scratch gently at Dean’s scalp.

Dean is more fucking content than he’s been in... ever, maybe. Probably.

That should have been his first clue it wouldn’t last.

Blanc’s finger traces over a scar on Dean’s side, long healed and pale. When he speaks, his drawl is thicker than normal because he says each word slowly, precisely. “I wonder if this… arrangement between us is for the best.”

Dean tenses immediately. He can’t help but feel like he’s being dumped, and fuck, that’s why he doesn’t do things like this. The best he can offer is an occasional fuck when their paths cross, and he’d never expected it to be enough, expected it to last. But he did think that maybe it would last longer than this.

His voice is defensive when he says, “You never had a problem with it before.”

Blanc’s hand stills in his hair. He doesn’t relinquish his hold on Dean’s hip, though. “Please don’t misunderstand me, dear boy,” he says, and Dean wishes the pet name didn’t melt some of the ice in his chest, but it does. How does Blanc just _do_ that?

“You deserve more.”

The words are out there between them, and they’re what Dean has been thinking this whole time, because the famous Benoit Blanc could have anyone and why would he want Dean Winchester, a fucked up nobody with a hundred fake names and felonies under his belt?

But then he realizes that he wasn’t the one who spoke.

“What?” he asks, dumbfounded. “What the fuck does that mean?” For all that the words are practically a snarl, he’s not angry.

(For once.)

He’s just so fucking confused, and it makes him defensive. In his life, he may play dumb, but genuinely not knowing something means ending up dead. Ergo, Dean doesn’t like feeling confused.

Blanc doesn’t speak for so long that Dean starts to think he’s not going to answer. When he does, he says, “I do not know much about your life.” There’s an emphasis on _know_ , the heavy implication that he suspects a great deal. Dean would feel a chill at that if he wasn’t smart enough to know Blanc has picked up on plenty. The man figured out the existence of the supernatural, after all, and jumped in to help Dean on a hunt with no further questions. He’s far from your average sleuth.

“Okay?” Dean still isn’t sure what Blanc’s trying to say, but he’s surprised by how badly he wants to understand Blanc’s meaning. How badly he wants this man to convince him he deserves anything, much less more than this inexplicably amazing thing they’ve stumbled into.

“You deserve…” Blanc pauses. “A confidant,” he says finally, and when Dean glances up, his lips are quirked up in a half smile like he knows how silly that’s going to sound to Dean. “A person who can share more of your life.”

Dean snorts a laugh, the sound a little bitter. “Yeah, that’s not really how any of this works,” he says, leaving aside the question of deserving entirely. “Roping someone into this life means getting them killed.”

Blanc doesn’t tell him that he could leave the hunting lifestyle behind. Leave his dad, go be normal with his brother. Not that Blanc knows the details, but it’s a thought that’s run through Dean’s head a handful of times in the last couple of years.

He couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t be able to live with himself knowing that there were people out there dying who he could have saved. Why is his life worth any more than theirs?

It’s not.

But he loves Blanc a little bit for not trying to convince him of any of that. For instead saying, “You deserve more than a good fuck whenever our paths cross.”

Dean can’t help but laugh and then deflect. It’s more ingrained than even an instinct now; it’s who he is. “You’re much more than a good fuck. You’re an amazing fuck. But it’s not like I’m pining for you; I have plenty of sex.”

It’s not a _total_ lie; Dean does have plenty of sex. But he may pine a little, because none of it makes him feel quite the way sex with Blanc does. Whatever, that’s his secret to keep. 

Blanc’s lips are quirked when Dean glances up at him to see if he’s annoyed at the deflection. It makes Dean bury a smile in the curve of Blanc’s shoulder, melts the last of the ice inside him. “Be that as it may,” Blanc says, but Dean can hear satisfaction with the compliment oozing from those honey-thick words. Because of course Blanc would see through his half-truth as well. Fuck.

He doesn’t press more than that, though. Instead, he’s quiet, and he resumes stroking Dean’s hair.

The quiet, the acceptance, eases past defenses Dean thought were ironclad. He admits, voice quiet and small, smaller than he’s heard his own voice be since he was a child, “I want to believe you, I do.”

Blanc still doesn’t push, just hums an agreement. Just when Dean’s been lulled into thinking maybe this conversation is over, though, he replies, “Not everyone is going to hurt you.” It would be a complete non-sequitur if it didn’t cut to the core of Dean’s fears, didn’t hone in on the reason he does one-night stands and nothing more than that, the reason he only sleeps with women unless he’s more than three hundred miles away from his dad.

“What if this is all I want?” Dean asks. He doesn’t say _what if_ you _are all I want,_ because that’s too big of an admission of things he can’t allow himself to want, to need, to even consider having.

“You will always be welcome in my bed,” Blanc says with a small smile.

Dean relaxes. It eases more honesty out of him, unexpected. He doesn’t even know what he’s about to say until the words are out, edging past the lump in his throat that tries to hold them back. “I’m… I’m trying. I really am.”

“Maybe,” Blanc says after a long moment, “you could start by calling me Benoit.”

Dean smiles and doesn’t even try to hide it this time. “Benoit,” he says, just to feel the name on his tongue. “Yeah, I can do that.”

* * *

When Dean leaves the next morning, on his way back to Tennessee to help his father with what he thinks is a lamia, he has a new contact in his phone personal phone. It only has four numbers in it: Bobby Singer, Dad, Sammy, and now one simply listed as BB.

It feels like the start of something real.


End file.
